


bring me home (like memories do)

by echelons



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echelons/pseuds/echelons
Summary: Alone, injured, and amnesiac, Logan remembers someone else.





	bring me home (like memories do)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Return of Wolverine #1.

The explosion knocks Logan back with an indescribable force, his entire world reduced to an achingly bright sensation of light and heat and agony. The motorcycle he had stolen earlier that day bends and crumples, the metal warped by the flame. There’s a deep familiarity to the pain, Logan thinks as he arcs through the air, and he wonders at all the explosions he’s lived through and now can’t recall. Then he hits a wall and consciousness escapes him.

When he comes back to an awareness of the world, every part of him still hurts, but at least his internal organs are mostly back to being internal. His outfit is singed and in tatters, and he has the unpleasant thought that his skin probably looked much the same before it started healing. He’s propped up against the wall of the warehouse he was thrown against, and the ugly grey concrete is smeared with his blood. On the other side of the street, he could see the still-smoking, blown-apart wall of the warehouse he’d meant to investigate, the Soteira logo charred but still intact.

Logan tries to stand, but before he gets even halfway there, another wave of pain crashes against him and he buckles. The world goes black again, and when he resurfaces, it’s much later. The light has changed, heavy thunderclouds obscuring the sunlight. Everything hurts marginally less, but it still hurts, so damn much, and he wonders if the old Wolverine- the man he was supposed to be- ever stopped hurting. He reaches up a hand, grunting in pain as the movement pulls every muscle in his body, and runs a hand over his mostly-healed scalp. As he brings his hand down, he feels the first drops of rain hit his hand.

“Aw, shit.” He mutters. “It’s gonna storm.”

 _Storm_.

The word triggers a now-familiar feeling of memories rushing in, a barrage of sights and sounds that Logan had somehow forgotten, pieces of his life that had been locked away, just waiting for him to find the key.

 _Storm_.

They’re in a bar, and it smells of tobacco and beer and grease, and they’re dancing. The press of her hand against his is familiar and electric all at once. His other hand is on her hip, and he can feel the heat of her skin through her dress. Her eyes sparkle, bright with laughter as she twirls, and Logan is looking up at her like she is the sun and he has spent his whole life stumbling through the dark.

They’re in a battle, bloody and burning and chaotic, and she’s in her black and yellow, calling orders. Her tone is charismatic, commanding, and Logan knows in his bones that he would follow her to the gates of Hell. Lightning crackles above her, her eyes a blank, terrifying white. She throws an opponent towards him with the force of her winds, and he slices it open, robotic innards spilling out from the three parallel cuts in its stomach.

They’re in bed, his mouth on her neck, their legs tangled up together as she draws her fingers down his chest. She smells of electricity and power and her coconut shampoo, and her voice is light, teasing. His own voice, more of a growl, answers with something of equal tone, the easy back-and-forth of long familiarity, as her fingers reach his hipbones, drawing circles over his skin. For the moment, there is no violence, no bloodshed, nothing in the world for them but each other, and it is good.

They’re in the office, working. She’s grading papers, red pen scrawling across her students’ work. She’s a good grader, he knows, firm but fair. He’s looking at accounts, trying desperately to make all the repairs they have to do fit within the school’s budget. There’s a cup of stale coffee on the table between them, and he thinks that it’s hers, but he drinks it anyway and immediately regrets his choice. This is his life, tedious and financially deficient and full of bad coffee, but then he looks at her and finds he doesn’t really mind.

 _Storm_ , he thinks. _Ororo._

_Ororo, Ororo, Ororo._

His blood sings in his veins, and her name is the song. He can feel it in every part of him, in every corner of his darkened soul, in every inch of his flesh as it knits itself back together. She is his compass, his anchor, every clichéd bullshit metaphor there is, that’s how much he loves her, and he is left gasping from the pain of that.

Whatever keeps him moving, he had thought earlier, and now he knows. He knows that he will put one foot in front of the other, step after torturous step, all the way to the ends of the earth if he has to. He will go wherever he must to hunt down Persephone and Soteira. He will find his answers and his memories and exact his justice and revenge, because only then can he go home.

The heavens open up, the rain washing over his still-healing skin, rinsing away the ash and blood, and for the first time since his rebirth, he feels clean.

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as the next issue comes out, this will stop being canon-compliant, and we will probably get some version of this scene in canon, but I had to write my own take on it.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
